His End of the Conversation
by bubble-rouge08
Summary: [SMACked] In FrankieStella POV. How many times did Mac interrupt Stella's phonecalls?
1. Jamalot

_**A/N: New story! Whee… and this is an experimental piece. Before I end "November", I'm starting this one. I say experimental because I have no idea where this'll end up. **_

_**This is Frankie and Stella POV. But you know me, I'm a true blue SMACker and nothing in the world could change that – even if they go and marry other people, I'mma find a way to have them end back up together haha!**_

**_Anyway, setting: early-mid season 2 starting with Jamalot. The idea came to me when I was watching reruns and I haven't seen any fics with Frankie on the helm. So this is a posthumous piece, since he has been _killed_ (there, I said it haha)._**

_**Enjoy!**_

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**HIS END OF THE CONVERSATION**

**© CATE**

"Really?" Stella said over the phone.

"Yes, I did. I was planning to take you out but I thought it would be better if we _eat in_," I said, holding my phone against my ear with my shoulder as I sketched out a design. "Where to?"

"My place," she said in a heartbeat. "Just as long as you don't stay over. You know me."

I didn't like that rule. _No men in her place._ Come on, I'm his boyfriend, we have been in my bed twice, we've been officially going out for eight months or so and it's pointless not to have me stay over really. I bet that boss of hers had been there more times than I could count. "If that's the case, then _my place_ would be better. You can stay over if you like."

"No, I think my place would be better," she persisted. I knew she was joking; that she actually meant the opposite.

"8 p.m. okay with you? I'll be waiting at the stoop," I said, placing my pencil down and looking at the half-finished sculpture beside me. "I know how you hate my doorman." My hand reached out to smoothen the nose of the face to make it look perfect… _Aresanob._

"Okay. I'll be there," she started. I could almost see her, seated in her office, twirling the telephone cord on her finger with that wide smile on her face that I can't seem to mimic on clay. But as soon as her flirty laugh emanated from the earpiece, she ended it with, "Ah ok, bye-b…" she didn't even have to finish the last part. _Dial tone._

That abrupt ending to our conversation only meant one thing… _her boss._ Mac Taylor is her co-worker slash partner for the past 10 years or so, she told me. Actually, for the first months of our relationship, she talked endlessly about that man. I told myself not to be jealous of him since he has been there first and they work together, no funny business – but it's hard not to once you see how Stella's wonderful green eyes shine when she talked about him. Even when she's venting frustration about the man, her eyes would sparkle and real emotions mar her face.

I saw him once or twice but we never really got introduced or acquainted in any way. He was busy talking with that blond punk with the glasses and that woman who looked like a little girl when I walked into their crime lab in search for Stella. She had me help her in a case and I was only too happy to oblige. But that also meant seeing her interact with other guys – particularly Mac Taylor. They weren't even working the same case but she still made it a point to stop and talk to him in the hallway, sharing a laugh over a private joke. I don't know why it infuriated me so much to see her with him – she would talk to the blond punk, to the Armani model detective and that rookie CSI and it would be fine by me. Yet with that ex-Marine… I can't even explain it.

For me, the more time she spends at work doesn't only mean less time with me. That also meant that she's spending more time with him. I know she'd rather share a pizza with him after shift than skip work for a day to be with me. He knows her more than I do; he has the aces and I don't. I felt stupid competing against a man who's not even in the game – a man who's not even dealing his cards.

Well, I'm dealing mine. I'm hiding my tells. And my price… _is Stella._

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I know I should be typing out my report. I should be processing evidence on our case. I should be anywhere but on the phone. I shouldn't be talking to my boyfriend in the middle of my shift. I know that I shouldn't have entertained Frankie's call.

"No, I think my place would be better," I joked when he offered that we order in for dinner. It's a game we play – how long will he take to break my _no men in my house_ rule. So far, he's not even warm.

"8 p.m. okay with you? I'll be waiting at the stoop. I know how you hate my doorman," he said, seeing through my reply. I don't really hate the doorman at his apartment building; I just don't like him ogling me.

"Okay. I'll be there," I said with a smile. I must admit, I haven't been spending much quality time with Frankie. Both of us are busy people – me more than him – and we rarely have synchronizing schedules. But this day, we made it a point to spend time with each other more.

I was admiring New York City from my office at the 35th floor of this building. It's funny how two different people from two very different work circles meet and somehow find a connection. Frankie and I met in an auction. I was into art and he was an artist. I was a CSI and he (as he said) failed all his Science subjects in high school. Yet, we hit it off right away. He started taking me to these art shows and I asked him a couple of times to help with my cases. It was a healthy relationship for him and for me.

Frankie was about to say something but when I turned my swivel chair around, I saw Mac walking towards my office. And he'll be expecting results. Results… _that I don't have_. "Ah ok, bye-bye," I said breathlessly as I almost slammed the receiver on the base just in time as Mac entered the room.

To make up for my disheveled and disoriented state, I stood and up spoke before he could even ask anything. "I've talked with the coach. He's a letch but…"

"But he's not a killer," he finished for me. I recoiled a bit and collected myself. He had that glint in his eyes as if he knew what I was doing instead of working on our case. He held my gaze for a second before shifting his eyes to the folder in his hands.

"What do you got?" I asked him, looking at the same thing. He then proceeded to explain to me about the DNP content of the rest of the Manhattan Minx team except for one person. I offered to drive over to that girl's workplace so we can ask her questions.

For the rest of the day, I couldn't shake Mac's expression when he 'caught' me. I was like a teenage girl who couldn't look straight at her father's eyes because she knew she was in trouble – not that I know how that really feels but it's close. I couldn't look at him straight in the eye without blushing.

Mac does know about Frankie and that he's my 'artist boyfriend' as he would describe him at first. Both men have not been in the same room ever. I can't seem to introduce on to the other without a tension overload. Somehow, I needed Mac's stamp of approval on Frankie. And I needed Frankie to be sure that Mac is _just my friend and co-worker_ – nothing more. So far, I don't think I'm doing a good job on either.

Come to think of it, Mac is the only guy whom I've spent most of my time with. Our jobs require long hours in the lab, out in the field and it has crazy hours, being on call 24/7. And being his right hand, we tend to pair up every time. It has been that way ever since I transferred to the crime lab. We had that understanding that nobody else seemed to have. Because of the job, I lost my social life – no friend would listen to gruesome details of a heavy case, no guy would be interested in a woman in a man's work turf. And also because of the job, I forgot how it is to be intimately attracted to someone.

I _admired_ Mac. He's a man of strength, loyalty and dignity – I don't think I can speak enough words about him. _Romantic love_ for the man was so far away from my mind. Plus the fact that he was married when I met him; I knew he's one of those untouchables. Instead, I tend to look for guys who are _just like him_ knowing that there wasn't anyone out there _just like him._

Well, at least I have Frankie. Mac? I doubt it worked out between that Rose woman and himself. He did go out for drinks with her about a year ago and then he never talked about it. His mention of a possible 'date' at the roller derby – well, I was joking. A roller derby is not really a date place especially if the woman gave the invitation. I'd never take Mac – er… _Frankie_ – watching that.

Sometimes, I feel the need to be with Mac as much as I can. I could see the loneliness in his eyes when it's just the two of us talking. When I talk about Frankie, he keeps this air around him, as if he's not affected – but I knew him better than that. Me being with Frankie meant that I might not be there to be with him all the time. And that bothers me… at the same time, _it makes me sad._ I've invested a big chunk of myself and my emotions to him that it's very hard to change that.

That night, I arrive at Frankie's place, still distracted. We watched a horror movie – his hopes that I might bet frightened and hold on/lean onto him. It did a good job keeping my mind away from Mac but when the food came: pesto pasta, Caesar's salad and… "_Cannoli_," Frankie said in the best Italian accent he could fake. That reminded me that I haven't held my end of the bargain with Mac. "Are you okay, baby?"

I managed to nod and take a bite off one end of the cannoli. Frankie plated the food and we switched from watching that horror flick to a proper date movie. I must admit that I was enjoying this night, with Frankie and a plate of cannoli – hey, that rhymed! But… I wonder what _he's_ doing now? Is he having another TV dinner tonight or some unhealthy fast food take out? What is he watching? _Has he gone home already or is he still at work_?

Frankie started to kiss the back of my neck. It distracted me from what I was thinking for sure. Those butterfly kisses led to his artwork-filled bedroom and me waking up the morning after alone in bed because Frankie was an early riser. I could smell him all around me – on me, beside me. It was a little creepy to wake up with at least ten pairs of 2D and 3D eyes staring at you. He said he wanted to have his _best_ work in his bedroom until he got enough for a 'very best' exhibit.

It was a bit lonely in there. It was silent apart from the shrill ring of a phone… _mine_. It rang twice more before I got to it. "Bonasera?" I scratched.

"Why won't you open your door?" the caller said. "I've been here for five minutes. We're running late for work." _Mac_.

"Uh… sorry," I scrambled for words. "Mac, I'm… I'm not…"

"Stella! You up?" Frankie said from the adjacent art studio.

The silence between Mac and I over the phone was deafening. "Mac, I…"

"You're not home," he finished. Something in the tone of his voice made my stomach drop. "That's okay, Stell. I'll see you later at the lab," then he clicked off without even letting me say anything else. I locked my phone and dressed myself with the same clothes I had last night. I checked Frankie's studio; he was working on one of his projects commissioned by the public library. "Hey Frankie, I have to go," I said, trying to sound sweet. "I'll call you later?" He walked over to me and gave me a kiss.

"Catch 'em, princess," he said before letting me go.

On my way to my apartment, I couldn't help but feel very guilty. Mac went out of his way to fetch me only to find out that I wasn't home. He lives at the opposite side of town from my place. I bet it's probably a surprise – I would be awoken by the doorbell ringing and find him there with a brown paper bag of breakfast that we can have together. Instead, I woke up on another man's bed – leaving Mac waiting for no one.

At work, I couldn't look at Mac in the eye. He couldn't either. We pretty much avoided each other the whole day. And I hate to think this but – it's awkward to walk around my close friend with him knowing what I was doing late last night.

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	2. Stuck on You

_**A/N: Here I am, experimenting again. Haha, I know some part of this chapter will be out-of-character for Mac and/or Stella but I hope I 'nailed' Frankie on the head hahaha – oh I know we Stella fans love that, right?**_

_**So tell me what you think. And I still don't have a definitive direction for this fic. I'll just go with the flow, I guess.**_

_**Thanks!**_

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"So, are you free tonight, my baby?" I whispered over the phone.

"I don't know about tonight but I'm free now," she replied simply. "I'm on my break but it won't last long."

"I'm sorry about our gallery date today," I said. I was a bit pissed that even there, work followed her. She was very well dressed for the occasion – not for work – but still, crime seemed to follow where she is. That _Mac Taylor_ signing up for the job made it all too perfect. And Stella just loves her job enough to work it as well.

She sighed. "No, I'm the one who should be sorry," she said. She has been apologizing the whole day. "Don't worry. Next time, I'll make sure nothing like this happens again."

"Oh it's not your fault somebody wanted to kill Carlo at his own party," I said. "Here's what… our next date, I'll really take you to a gallery. No condos or lofts this time. Deal? Carlo does own a huge gallery up in…"

Stella began laughing. It was that sarcastic laugh. "You are _not_ to take me to any of his establishments, Frankie. After seeing his little digital black book, I don't think I have respect left for the man," she said. "Where did you meet that person anyway? He's neither an artist nor a connoisseur. He lives, breaths, and eats women."

"Art is the sex of imagination, Stella," I told her. _George G. Nathan. _"Carlo looks for physical sex and my imagination looks for its own. And it found that in art."

"Hmm, so I guess you won't be needing me much if your imagination has your art," she whispered. "That an artist's need is fed by his drive for that one masterpiece."

"An artist's hands never tire," I replied. "He manipulates, molds and shapes his medium until it takes on the perfect shape… the one he envisions in his mind." I knew where this conversation might go. "Yet, an artist might not work too hard if his muse makes perfection impossible. He must accept that his muse – is one and only one – and that all he needs to do is to honor that beauty."

"Oh-kay, Frankie…" she said, laughing. "I have to go now."

"Aw, Stella," I pushed. "Come on… it's an innocent conversation. And…"

"No, listen, I gotta go," she said nervously then she clicked off.

I don't know if it's her work that bothers me or something else. _Someone else_. For once, she never placed me in front of her work. The NYPD takes precedence over her personal life. At least, that is what I feel without paranoia setting in. And when it does, this is how it looks like: _Mac Taylor takes precedence over Frankie Mala._

I cradled the phone after hearing the dial tone change. I didn't realize that I was gripping it that my knuckles turned white. My _masterpiece_ was in front of me, unfinished, incomplete but already beautiful. My muse will always be more beautiful. I want my muse to realize that I… I will be the best thing to ever happen in her life.

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"No, listen, I gotta go," I said abruptly and then folding my phone closed with a loud click. I wasn't planning to end that call that way, it's just that Mac and Sheldon are going my way and I don't want _him_ to catch me doing nothing again. Even if I did have some information now, it wouldn't help as much.

They entered the break room and went to business right away. I straightened my shirt as I stood up and met them with my useless information. I was secretly wishing that I had a straight face on and not some guilty mien that I had the last time Mac walked in on my conversation.

"I'm not keeping score," Mac said when I told them about the black book bust. We all had to smile at that – very unbecoming of Mac Taylor to say. But I couldn't help but apply 'score' to how many times Frankie's calls almost interfered with work. To control my nerves, I stood beside Sheldon and rolled an orange between my palms. Mac threw a water bottle to Sheldon and took a swig from his.

"Okay, new direction. If Carlo owned a bow and arrow, where did he keep it?" Mac asked.

"Well, obvious place would be somewhere in his home," Sheldon answered him.

"Forget about the black book. Anyone with access to his house would be a suspect," I contributed.

"Odds are, we're looking for somebody who was at the party," Sheldon said.

"Right," I said thoughtfully. I felt their eyes on me. "Well, my prints aren't going to match. Promise."

Sheldon smirked. Of course he knew that. "Eh, I believe you," Mac said with a smile. "It's the_ other guests_ that I don't_ trust_." Oh I had to look down. _Other_ guests. Including _Frankie_. It's not that I suspect my own boyfriend of the crime – he was with me the whole time. It's just that… _I know_ Mac is a bit unsure of Frankie. The way he would act around me when the conversation turned to him always concerned me. It's as if he's keeping his distance more and more and his smile didn't seem real. Believe me, I've been around him long enough to gauge when he is or he's not faking a smile.

For the rest of the day, everything seemed normal. We nailed the guy – who turned out to be the artist, a crime of passion – and afterwards, I wanted to call Frankie to make up for the day and the impeded conversation we had. But I decided not to; instead, I invited Mac for after-shift coffee. It's been a while since we had a session. He was slightly surprised when I stopped by his office and offered. He said yes and we shared a cab to Sullivan's.

As usual, it was noisy with other NYC cops off-shift. A lot of familiar faces greeted us on our way in. We found an empty booth at the back of the bar, far away from the already drunk men and some women. Mac ordered for us and added some biscuits to go with the steaming mugs of Irish coffee. "So what's up?" he said, settling into the booth.

"I'm sorry," I started. "I know that since Frankie came into the picture, we…" _We what_? Nothing _really_ changed insomuch that it raises alarm. Mac and I were still the same people – still friends, still great and professional colleagues. I don't actually know _why_ I am apologizing. I _felt_ like I _need_ to make up for something.

"We?" he prodded. His intense eyes were on me as I warmed my hands with the mug. He waited patiently for my answer, reaching over to get a biscuit and munching on it.

I followed his hand. "We…" I bit my lip. I didn't know what to say mainly because I didn't think about it. "We… uhm… look," look _what_?

He saw through me easy. "Stella, if this is about last week, don't worry about it," last week meaning when he went over to my apartment only to find it empty because I spent the night at Frankie's. I raised my eyes to his and I saw him smiling. "I know it was a bit awkward between us for a couple of days after but hey, we're adults and… _he's_ your _boyfriend_ and people in love or in an intimate relationship do _that_. It's normal."

I had to smile at his explanation, which he delivered flawlessly. He took my hand in his and continued, "What you do in your own time is none of my business. Just as long as it doesn't interfere with work, okay?" The hand on mine was warm and comforting. I always felt safe with him. I nodded slowly and – I was surprised myself – I pulled my hand away.

For some reason, his touch sent fire through my veins. His surprised expression and the way he wrung his hands told me that he might've felt it too. We both took a long sip from our respective mugs and avoided each other's eyes. _What the hell was happening_? It was silent apart from the faraway drunken laughs of the bar's patrons.

"I have to go," he said, placing money on the table – which was _way _more than enough. "I have some place to go." _I know._ It's Wednesday. He doesn't know that I know that he plays bass for a band in a jazz bar. I used to watch from time to time, taking the seat farthest from the stage and the lights. _That_… was before Frankie entered the picture.

"Sure, I understand," I mumbled behind my hair. It's times like these that I'm thankful for my messy curls. I don't want him to see me blushing. I must admit that he looks _hot_ with a bass guitar in his hand.

I heard his footsteps fade and then they became louder again. Now, why would he come back? "Stell," he said, using his nickname for me, "do you want to come? I can get you free food and drinks at the bar and you don't have to watch from that dark spot."

My jaw fell and my cheeks burned. I just stared at him. "You…" I couldn't make words work.

"Yes, I know. Saw you a couple of times," he chuckled, taking my arm and pulling me up. I was still slack jawed as I followed him out. We stopped under a streetlight and he manually closed my mouth with two fingers under my chin, "You'll catch flies and that's not very nice." I then bit my lip and smiled shyly. "Do you think I won't recognize that curly-haired silhouette?" he said, turning his back to me and hailing a cab.

We got into the cab and Mac said, "So what do you think?" I recovered from my initial embarrassment and I could look at him in the eye again. He looked like a little boy, anxious to what his mom would say about his gold star at school.

"Well," I said in my sarcastic tone, sitting back and facing him, "I have been watching for some time now and so far…" he leaned forward, anticipating my answer, "it's all right."

"All right?" he said, sounding sort of disappointed. I nodded, _still _sarcastic. "Oh."

I couldn't help but laugh and give in. "Aw, come on, Mac… you guys are really good," I admitted. "Who would've thought that _Mac_ _Taylor_ plays the bass guitar and plays it well?" He visibly blushed. "Although I'm biased when it comes to bands that play _my_ favorite song," I said subjectively.

"Which is?" he asked hopefully. _Oh no_, you're not going to get that from me easy. "Stella?"

Mac _really_ wanted that information. For what reason, I do not know. "Mac, why is it important whether I like it or not?"

He seemed to be taken aback by that. He paused and looked like he didn't know what he just said. "Uh… because…"

"We are here, police people," the accented cab driver said, sliding the divider open. Mac paid _again_ and we walked into the jazz club. As always, he held the door open for me and led me in with his hand on the small of my back.

We stopped at the bar and he introduced me to the barmaid and the bandleader. I received knowing looks from the woman and I wondered why she was giving me those. Then I realized that Mac's left hand was resting comfortably on my left shoulder, arm around my torso. "So… co-worker. You're a detective, too?" she said with a grin, staring at where we were 'joined'.

"Yes, she's also my friend for a long time now," Mac answered enthusiastically. He squeezed my shoulder and continued, "So if ever you see her around, whatever she orders… put it on my tab."

"Mac!" I exclaimed, swatting his chest mockingly. He laughed. I laughed along with him.

""Friend, _right_," the bandleader, Kevin, said, sharing a glance with the barmaid, Sue. With that, we stopped our childish antics and blushed. "Okay, enough with the awkward realizations and such and such. Mac, your instrument is waiting for you and the crowd is ready."

"Okay," he said. "Sue, I leave Stella to you." He started to walk to the backstage door when I stopped him with…

"Betcha By Golly Wow."

He halted and smiled. And then he nodded in understanding. Sue leaned over to me and asked, "What was that all about?" I gave her a look that I know all women could read and with a pop of her nicotine gum, she smirked and poured me some lemonade.

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_Okay, 'Betcha By Golly Wow' is _my_ favorite song. Haha, well, one of them at least._


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